


A Morning After of Little Consequence

by sadlygrove



Series: Persian Rug [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlygrove/pseuds/sadlygrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greece reflects the next morning, about everything and not just last night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Morning After of Little Consequence

Greece wakes up the next morning wrapped haphazardly in a blanket, his cheek pressed to Turkey's bare abs. For a moment, he thinks he's gone back through time, and he is very small, swathed in fine silk in the Ottoman Empire's bedroom. Despite the Persian rug and dying fire, there is a flat screen TV on the wall, and it breaks the illusion quite thoroughly. 

He's naked, and the very thought brings all of last night back into his mind; the bar, the taxi ride, the rug, the taste of bad ouzo in his mouth. He hates that every time he gets together with the rest of Europe and they bitch and whine, he's the one who has to defend Turkey all while pointedly glaring-- _if you ever tell him I said any of this, I will stab you in the face._  Because the bastard really isn't all that bad, certainly not as bad as they make him out to be, and there's still a part of Greece that feels safer with him than the westerners.

There's sunlight hitting his eyes through the window, and he's finally gotta move. Turkey's body is warm and his snores don't bug Greece like they used to. It's probably his own fault anyway, after breaking his nose by the banks of the Danube in the 1800s. Turkey never used to make any sound in his sleep, way back then. When Greece rises slowly, the blanket at his waist and the arm around his shoulders fall. Turkey's cock is suddenly exposed, and Greece stares at it with half-lidded eyes through his hangover. It always surprises him that all that can fit inside of him, can feel so good. He's got half a mind to suck it to wake up Turkey--the man gets a nosebleed whenever that happens and it's downright comical--but Greece doesn't want him to get too smug this early in the morning. So instead he gently disengages himself from the blanket and snoring man, making his way through the downstairs master suite to the bathroom.

The shower hits him with a hot, steady stream and cascades down his back, washing away the scent of sweat and oil and come from Greece's skin. He's always been a little funny about that particular combination of scents, the sweat especially. The smell is atrocious, and it reminds him too much of when Turkey would come home from kicking Bulgaria or Hungary or Romania's ass, covered in blood and sweat. Greece swears the man got a hard-on from fighting; he'd stalk Greece through the palace, trap him, and things would go from there. And Greece would see him in his armor, feel a shudder pull through his veins, and the desire to share the Empire's bed would all but consume him. After growing up with tales of Achilles and Odysseus, Greece is a sucker for warriors, that much he can at least admit.

Greece dips his head into the water, wincing when it hits the back of his neck. He doesn't remember it, but the evidence is there; Turkey bit him again. He must have said something to make the man particularly jealous last night, in that case. The first time he'd been bitten, Greece had apparently been spending too much of his time with Egypt, much to the Ottoman Empire's intense irritation. Greece lathers shampoo in his hair--sandalwood, Turkey's favorite scent--and sighs as it rinses down his back. He has seen cats bite each other in a similar fashion while mating, and flushes deeply whenever he thinks about Turkey doing the same to him. The man has his share of kinks, and there were a few that only Greece knows about because they have somehow become his own: He likes to bite Greece's neck, fuck him in places he knows they could get caught, and Turkey quite enjoys coming on Greece's chest and face. He used to hate that, feel ashamed, but afterward Turkey would clean him off gently, kissing the side of his lips and whispering things neither will ever tell another soul. So Greece stopped feeling ashamed, because there was nothing to be embarrassed over; he felt cherished, as... mortifying as that in itself was.

By the time he's done rinsing off his body, Turkey has the decency to stumble into the master bathroom, looking for all the world like he's the one with a hangover. Neither of them have ever been morning people. Greece hides a minuscule smile, and makes room for the groggy man in the shower. It's decorated in lovely Spanish tiles, but still a far cry from the great halls they used to bathe in back when Istanbul still had them. Greece supposes he can blame what he does next on nostalgia; he lathers up his hands with the sandalwood shampoo, and runs them through Turkey's damp hair, massaging the scalp. Turkey all but purrs, eyes shut and head falling forward into Greece's expert hands. He had been trained by the most skilled tellaks in the art of the bath house, and Greece is somewhat proud that he hasn't forgotten. He likes to wash Japan's hair this way too, and Egypt's when he'll allow him.

Gently, he leans Turkey's head back and begins to rinse the soap away. Their mornings after are not usually this docile, so Greece will take them when he can get them. He supposes everyone has someone they go to when they just want to cut through the bullshit and share a bed for one night. America has Russia, England has France, and he has Turkey. Greece doesn't need to tell him what to do or what he wants; Turkey just knows. 

The last of the soap washes away and Greece quickly removes his hands, sliding open the glass door to exit the shower before Turkey opens his eyes.

After he's dried off, Greece sets to blowing his hair dry in the mirror; he recognizes the hair dryer as one he left here ages ago. As he works his fingers through his locks, Greece watches Turkey clean himself in the shower. By the time he's done and Greece shuts off the dryer, he's already resigned himself to the fact that they will most likely have sex once more before he leaves the house.

"I'm going back to sleep," he announces, tossing his damp towel to the floor.

Turkey eyes it, but makes no remark about cleanliness and respect for his abode. There's water dripping down his chest, and it's hard for Greece not to stare at it. "Oh? I thought you didn't get hungover, brat."

"I never said I was hungover, you geezer; I'm just tired."

"And  _I'm_  the geezer?" Turkey smirks, grabbing a towel for himself. "Whatever you say."

Greece leaves the bathroom then, making his way for Turkey's plush bed--no way is he sleeping on the floor in the living room for the rest of the day, no thank you. He's naked when he gets under the covers, and it brings back memories of a lavish bedroom thrice the size of this one, decorated in vases and silks and furs. He remembers being small in the bed, dwarfed by great pillows, an arm around him and the feeling of being safe, if only while the Empire slept. He has to remind himself that things weren't really that easy, at least not after they got out of that bed.

When Turkey climbs into the covers beside him, Greece's eyes are already shut and he feels the mattress sink down, Turkey's pajama pants soft against his legs. There's shifting, movement, to Greece's irritation--he was just about to drift off, dammit--and the sound of that damned laptop starting up. "Do you really have to do that in bed?"

"I ain't tired," Turkey grunts. "May as well get some work done."

"You're just going to play games," Greece mutters, hugging his pillow closer to his face.

"Very important work."

"Keep the volume down."

"Shit, I thought you were going to sleep?" But the laptop's sound cuts off, Turkey muting it just the same.

"Maybe I will if you stop talking to me."

"Brat."

"Hmph." 

Greece falls asleep then, and he's not sure if the fingers in his hair are the real thing as he finally drifts off. He dreams of a masked man riding into Constantinople, a masked man choking him beside the Danube, and an unmasked man standing with him beside the sea. Greece is never quite certain which of these men he likes more. Likes, not  _loves_ , he always tells himself, because they're all too terrible for that.  


  



End file.
